


Sherlock Is (Not) A Girl's Name

by ThetaSigma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discussions of Gender Identity, First Kiss, First Time, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Sherlock's approach is really not good, With a definite happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-06 18:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14062923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: Sherlock knows two facts for certain:1. He is in love with John2. John likes women.Sherlock supposes he can add a third fact: He's definitely not a woman.But, he figures he canbecomeone, and surely that's good enough?Luckily for him, John isn't an idiot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completed, and I'll post a chapter a day. (Whole fic will be up Sunday for those who don't want to wait!)
> 
> Betaed by the truly excellent [88thParallel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel), without whom this fic would be far more incoherent. Any mistakes left are definitely my fault!

Sherlock Holmes was absolutely sure of two things:  
1\. He was completely, entirely, _consumingly_ in love with John Watson  
and  
2\. John liked women.

Sherlock could’ve, he supposed, added a third item to that list: he was most definitely a man.

It seemed insolvable until he remembered a case involving a woman who had been born male. Sherlock remembered that case clearly, as all the evidence had pointed one way but DNA another.

Sherlock considered this. Truthfully, he had zero desire to change his body to be female. He remembered reading about the why and the how people decided to transition. The why didn’t line up with how he felt – he definitely always considered himself male. The how made him cross his legs defensively. He happened to like his penis. One could even say he was attached to it.

 _No_ , he told himself firmly. His body was just transport. And if this worked… well, it would be worth it. Probably.

There were other things to consider, of course. He knew from that case not all straight men were comfortable dating someone who had once been male. He was fairly certain John didn’t have that discomfort, though. Sherlock accessed his mental file on John. Definitely not – one of his girlfriends in uni had been transsexual.

It didn’t mean, of course, that John would see Sherlock like that, that John would be attracted to a female Sherlock. A test run was called for. He’d limit it to their flat, tell John he wasn’t ready to tell everyone (God, no, especially if it didn’t work. Mycroft would know _why_ immediately and be _insufferable_ ). John was painfully conscientious and would keep this secret until Sherlock was ready.

Well, nothing to be gained by waiting. As soon as John was home, he’d tell him.

*** 

John trudged up the steps. Sherlock was in his pajamas on the couch in his thinking pose.

“Did you move at all today, you lazy sod?” John asked affectionately.

Sherlock made a vague noise that could be either assent or dissent.

He heard John moving around in the kitchen, obviously making himself a cup of tea. Sherlock didn’t bother to ask for one – by now, John automatically made a second cup for Sherlock. “Two sprained wrists, seven colds – one convinced it was swine flu or… African Sleeping Sickness? – and… broken leg,” Sherlock called.

“You forgot the old bat who comes in every week with a new insane complaint. This week, she was convinced she was pregnant. She’s seventy-two,” John called back.

He emerged from the kitchen with a mug in each hand. He handed Sherlock his, then sank into his armchair with a relieved sigh.

Sherlock carefully sat up. “John, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

John straightened in his chair, clearly recognising that this was going to be a serious talk. “Of course, Sherlock. You know you can always tell me anything.”

Sherlock did know that. John accepted everything about him, supported him when necessary, praised him, cared for and about him – it was one of the (many) reasons Sherlock loved him and one of the things that made him think that if they got around Sherlock’s pesky gender, John would want a romantic relationship. 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said gravely. He hesitated. How to say this without completely misleading John. “I… in the flat, I’d like to see what it’s like to be female. It’s something I’ve been considering.” Not a lie, he just omitted _why_ he was considering it. “But it’s not something I’m ready to do outside. I want to see how it feels first.” He stopped and folded his hands in his lap, waiting for John’s response.

John made a thoughtful noise. Sherlock waited patiently as John organised his thoughts – he didn’t time it, but it was a good couple minutes. 

“First, thank you for telling me this. I’m honoured you trust me enough. But I have some questions, though, if you’re okay with answering them.”

Sherlock resigned himself to answering probing, personal questions about how long he’d felt this way, what it felt like, what the process would entail, and so on. “Go on,” he said.

“When you say you want to try it in the flat, what do you mean? Dressing as a woman? Do you want me to use different pronouns, or not yet? Do you want me to call you something other than Sherlock? When you say that you want to do this in the flat, do you mean you don’t want anyone else to know yet? Whatever it is, I’m happy to work with it, I just don’t want to cross one of your boundaries.”

Oh. Those were all really good questions. Sherlock had the feeling he’d once again underestimated John. He pondered the questions, and John waiting patiently, making no attempt to hurry him up.

“Definitely dressing different,” Sherlock said. “You’d only use pronouns with others, and I’m not ready to let anyone else know yet. I’d change if someone were coming.” He thought a bit about the name. He liked his name, and it wasn’t obviously a male name. On the other hand, he wanted John to start thinking of him differently, and a different name might help. Then again, if he _did_ ask John to call him something else in the flat, he might slip and use it – completely accidentally – outside the flat. No, for now, at least, he’d keep Sherlock. 

“And the name – Sherlock’s not obviously male. I’d like to keep using that, at least for now.”

John nodded. “Okay. If you want something else to change, let me know.”

“John. Thank you. I know not everyone would be so accepting of this.”

John smiled at him warmly. “You’re my best friend. Of course I’m going to accept you. In whatever form.”

 _Hopefully, soon, I’ll be something more than just your best friend_ , Sherlock thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make clear that Sherlock's attitude here is _meant_ to be unhealthy. This is definitely not a good reason to transition. At no point am I suggesting his behaviour is one to strive for or emulate, and later chapters make it clear this isn't a good thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts his plan into action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this didn't go up yesterday! Real life intruded. As a note, if you can avoid having a real life, definitely do. They're tedious.
> 
> Three will be uploaded today too!

Sherlock considered just how to make this change. Clothes, definitely – he’d stick to dresses and skirts for now. He had a decent collection of them for disguises. Light makeup, to soften his face a bit. He knew he was physically striking, but he was aiming for feminine – or at the very least, androgynous.

False breasts. He made a face – he really didn’t want anything on his chest. Still. Women generally had breasts (and John _liked_ breasts). He considered the issue of size. Someone of his weight would generally have fairly small ones, but that wasn’t really a rule. He’d prefer, if he had to have breasts, to have small ones, and the ones he already owned (for _disguises_ ) were an A-cup. 

He paused. In all this, he should consider what _John_ found most attractive. If he was gong to become a woman, he might as well become one John found attractive.

He made a list of what he’d noticed John finding attractive:  
 _\-- Shorter than John  
\-- Mid-size breasts  
\-- Makeup, not overdone  
\-- Shoulder-length hair, no particular colour  
\-- Curves  
\-- Floral or fruit scent_

Sherlock studied his list. “Shorter than John” – there was nothing he could do about his height and the 13 cm difference. He’d make sure not to wear shoes with any significant heel, though. There was no need to further emphasize the difference.

“Mid-size breasts” – he could definitely get false breasts in a slightly larger size (B? C?). That was fairly easy.

“Makeup, not overdone” – he’d already determined that. Moving on.

“Shoulder-length hair” – his wasn’t, currently, but he could definitely grow it out. He’d put up with the annoying stage when it wasn’t long enough to follow the rules of gravity.

“Curves” – no way for him to fake having curves. Padding, maybe? But he rather thought it would look ridiculous. He surveyed his body critically in the mirror. Breasts would add some, and his arse was surprisingly pronounced, but the rest of him was definitely angular. Hopefully their friendship would be enough for John to overlook these things.

“Floral or fruit scent” – he could change his shampoo, he supposed. Perfume would be harder to remove quickly, he’d save that for later.

He considered which of his behaviours clearly marked him as male. No wandering around the flat with just pajama bottoms or a towel around his waist. He needed to reinforce that there was something more about his chest.

His voice, too, was deep – far deeper than any woman’s. For cases, though, he’d cross-dressed with some success, and he could, if need be, speak in a higher register. He’d never hit soprano, but he figured he could stay in the alto range. He’d never tried it indefinitely, though.

What was he missing? He wasn’t aiming for some “stereotypical” idea of womanhood – generally put about by arsehole men, anyway. He wasn’t about to start being subservient like a 50’s housewife, and he didn’t think John would particularly like that.

Legs. He’d have to shave his legs. Women apparently did as a matter of course (something else he didn’t particularly understand – who the fuck _cared_ – but no one consulted gay men about their opinions regarding women’s bodies).

And he’d have to minimise the appearance of his penis. He wasn’t going to do a full tuck – too unwieldy to undo fast – but he could definitely make it less… obvious. He wasn’t _huge_ , but it was a decent handful, and definitely noticeable in tighter clothes.

With all that in mind, Sherlock headed off shopping. He returned with the necessary items – razor, shaving gel, false breasts, fruit-scented shampoo (the rest he had already), and, since he was already at a store, milk and tea so John would be happy. He was fairly certain it was even the _right_ milk. He locked himself in the bathroom to make his transition for the first time.

He stripped and got into the tub, then carefully shaved his legs. He made a face. He never particularly liked the silky feel. Not that his legs were particularly hairy, but there was something about them denuded that made him squirm. Too much sensation at once.

He washed and styled his hair, trying to feminise it a bit. The smell of strawberry – ethyl methyphenylglycidate, really, commonly used as strawberry scent – made him wrinkle his nose. He preferred his usual shampoo, which had only a faint fragrance, and of cedar and sandalwood. God, this shit was overpowering. He needed his sense of smell. It was critical to the Work. Maybe less shampoo next time? Or was smelling like a goddamn fruit salad that important anyway? Couldn’t he just smell like cedar? He’d modify depending on John’s reaction (if John stood nearer and inhaled deeply, Sherlock would suck it the fuck up).

He did the makeup with a deft hand and slipped into a simple black dress. He slid stockings on, grimacing at the feel against his freshly-shaved legs. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, of course – disguise! – but he never, ever had liked the feel. He slipped the false breasts – a C-cup, in the end – in place.

He surveyed himself in the mirror. It’d do, he supposed. He definitely looked like he could conceivably pass for a woman. 

He hoped John would like it.

He emerged from the bathroom and wandered to the kitchen, where John was putting together his lunch. Sherlock concentrated on his walk – swaying his hips a bit more, shortening his stride, not his usual imperious dashing about. John looked up and smiled at him.

“You make a lovely woman, Sherlock. Wow.”

It was exactly what he’d hoped for from John. So why did he feel so hollow?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan, two and a half weeks later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's 3 as well.

Two and a half weeks had passed since Sherlock had told John he wanted to experiment with his gender expression in the flat. As soon as they heard the front door open, or Mrs Hudson’s steps on the stairs, Sherlock disappeared to his room and effected a quick transformation back to male. 

Sherlock _hated_ this. It felt wrong. It felt uncomfortable. It felt _unnatural_. 

And, to make things worse, John didn’t seem to be thinking of him as a romantic and sexual prospect _still_. There were no markers of increased sexual arousal from John. Mostly, when John looked at him, he looked unhappy and uncomfortable.

Sherlock was pretty sure this was what heartbreak felt like. There was nothing else he could do. He didn’t even know what the sticking point was. Was it that John had known him as a male and couldn’t switch to believing he was female? He knew John was making an effort, but sexual attraction wasn’t like that. Was it Sherlock’s personality? John had no issues with Sherlock usually – well, _few_ , and most of his objections to Sherlock’s behaviour, he made because he felt he should, not because of any real annoyance – but that was as friends, not lovers. 

Did John want something else in a woman? Did he still think he wanted normal (he’d be bored stiff within a month)? Did he want someone who could bear children? There was nothing Sherlock could do to make himself able to do that. He wondered if John wanted to be a father. He never spoke of it, but Sherlock had observed him during cases with kids. John was good with them. Soft. Affectionate. Was that it, then? John wanted children?

Sherlock considered it further. Did _he_ want kids? Was that something he could see himself doing?

Definitely no. Not even for John. Sherlock had no particularly strong feelings about children in general – most of them were dull and stupid, but then again, so were most adults – but he didn’t want to be a father (or, he supposed, a mother).

Whatever it was, Sherlock couldn’t do anything. He tugged unhappily at his hem and tried to recline comfortably. No more sprawling in whatever way he wanted – especially since the hem of his dress often rode up. This was utterly miserable, but Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure it was time to end the experiment and call it a failure.

Just a little longer. He could endure this just a _little_ longer, surely. 

*** 

John was worried. He wanted to support his best friend in whatever he – she? – decided, but even an idiot could tell Sherlock was profoundly uncomfortable whenever he – she – fuck it, _he_ was dressed as a female and relieved whenever he could go back to being male. 

John wondered why Sherlock was sticking with this. Was he worried what John would think of him if he changed his mind? Had John not made it clear enough that whatever Sherlock was comfortable with, whatever he settled on, was all good with John? That whatever it was, John would support him?

Was this for a case? John didn’t think so – Sherlock would’ve gone with that as an explanation. Unless he was doing an experiment on how people responded to someone they knew changing their gender identity? But if that were the case, wouldn’t Sherlock – ever the scientist – want a sample size of more than one? By now, other people were used to Sherlock doing odd things in the name of The Work, and it wasn’t like Sherlock particularly cared what the idiot masses thought of him. 

As much thought as John gave it, he couldn’t work out why Sherlock was still doing this.

John was tidying papers up – all Sherlock’s, but if he waited for Sherlock to do it, they’d be wading through waist-high piles before Sherlock thought anything was amiss. For the most part, he just straightened them, not throwing much out – even the most incomprehensible scrap meant _something_ to Sherlock, and Sherlock had gotten stroppy before that John had thrown something “essential” away.

John frowned as he scanned one of the pages. Definitely Sherlock’s handwriting:  
 _John:  
\-- Shorter than him: Not possible.  
\--Mid-size breasts  
\-- Makeup, not overdone  
\-- Shoulder-length hair, no particular colour  
\-- Curves: padding? Not really possible either  
\-- Floral or fruit scent: shampoo with ethyl methylphenylglycidate?_

For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to try to set him up with someone, which John definitely didn’t want. He studied the list again. It wasn’t even odd Sherlock that knew all this. Scanning the note again, a thought occurred to John. Was Sherlock trying to become the kind of woman John was attracted to? It was definitely a theory that fit all the available facts.

_Oh, Sherlock_ , John thought sadly. 

It was definitely time to have a talk with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally has that talk with Sherlock. There's smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many more thanks to my beta, [88thParallel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel), for reworking this chapter with me. She's a _treasure_.

John didn’t put off the talk. He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket, then finished tidying while he waited for Sherlock to emerge from his Mind Palace. He knew from experience that interrupting him wasn’t a good way to start a discussion.

He was in his armchair, trying to read (and mostly failing) when Sherlock stretched languidly, then stopped suddenly and tugged annoyedly at his hem.

“Good think?” John asked.

“Mm.”

“Sherlock, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Sherlock looked up. Was this it? Was this when John told him he wanted to start a romantic relationship? He couldn’t read John’s face for any clues. John looked nervous – was that enough to get hopeful? “Go on,” he said with cautious hope, remembering to pitch his voice higher than usual.

“Right,” John said, taking a deep breath. “Just… bear with me. You know talking about things isn’t really my forte.”

Sherlock let himself hope a bit more. Most things, John could express just fine. It was emotional conversations he found difficult. “I’ll be as patient as I can manage.”

“I’ll take that. It’s, uh, it’s about… look, I’m probably not going to use the right words. God knows Harry’s always on me about not keeping up with the correct terminology.”

“John. It’s fine. I know you. You – unlike me, usually – aren’t trying to be offensive.”

John flashed a tight smile. “I wanted to, uh, talk to you about this… experiment? in gender expression. Sherlock, you know I support you completely. If this is what makes you happy, then I’m here for you. But. Sherlock. I know you. I know what you look like happy, and you haven’t been since you started this. You always look really uncomfortable. I… I don’t like seeing you unhappy. Can you tell me what you’re thinking about this?”

Sherlock tried to repress his scowl. John was observant at the most inconvenient times. He could hardly fault John for bringing it up, though – Sherlock knew he would have been far less tactful had their positions been reversed. He ignored the little voice that pointed out that would never happen – John didn’t need to change his gender for Sherlock to love him.

He cleared his throat and said stiffly (but with the same higher pitch), “The results I’d hoped to obtain from this ‘experiment’ haven’t transpired yet. I’m not quite ready to give up.”

John absorbed this thoughtfully. Sherlock hoped he’d drop it, although this conversation was making him think this entire experiment (a good word for it) was doomed to failure.

“Can I ask what results you’re hoping for?”

“Would taint the experiment,” Sherlock answered smoothly.

“Of course it would. But, again, I _know_ you, Sherlock. You’re a scientist at heart, and well-versed in statistics. If this was a general experiment, you’d be involving more people – you hate samples sizes of one. You get cranky when for moral or legal reasons, you can only use me as a sample. So. There’s nothing that would mean you can’t have a larger sample size, which means you’re testing me in particular.”

Curse the man. Why did he have to be so observant and intelligent now? Sherlock couldn’t find any fault with his deductions. Still, it didn’t mean he’d capitulate easily. “Perhaps I don’t want to be thought of as _more_ of a freak,” he said acidly.

“I _almost_ believe that – but you never care what others think of you, and you run roughshod over people in the name of science. And, well, I have an additional piece of evidence.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Sherlock. “I found this while tidying. Sherlock, are you trying to become the kind of woman I find attractive?”

Sherlock exploded. “What does it matter?! Clearly, it doesn’t make any difference! What do you _want_ from me, John?”

“Just you. In whatever way makes you happy. If you’re honestly happy as a woman, then that way. But if you’re happy as the _man_ I fell in love with, then that way. _You_ , Sherlock, just _you_.” He stopped suddenly, panting hard with emotion, a flush spreading on his face.

Sherlock stared at him. “The man you fell in love with?” he asked dazedly. God, that was more than he could’ve hoped for.

“God, Sherlock, how do you not know how much I love you?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Sherlock asked accusingly.

“Does ‘married to my work’ sound familiar? Why didn’t _you_ say something instead of this?”

“Does ‘I’m not gay’ sound familiar? What was I _supposed_ to think?”

John shrugged. “I’m really not gay. It’s just _you_.”

“And my being a man is…”

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re the most gorgeous, wonderful, brilliant person I’ve ever met. Male or female, _as_ a male or female.” He stared at Sherlock intently, willing him to see the truth, to read it in his face.

Sherlock stared back, sitting up slowly, maintaining eye contact. John felt like he was drowning in Sherlock’s gaze – oxygen was definitely not important anymore, not as long as Sherlock looked at him like _that_.

John stood slowly, made his way over to Sherlock without breaking eye contact for a second. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and brushed a kiss over his lips. “Okay?” John asked softly.

Sherlock hesitated, and John pulled back, stung. Was it too soon? Did he read the situation _totally_ wrong? Before he could chastise himself further, or work himself up, Sherlock said, “No, it’s good, just… not like _this_.” He gestured down at himself: the dress, the breasts, the stockings, the makeup. “Give me half an hour.”

He ran the back of his hand across John’s cheek and dropped a kiss in his hair, then made his way down the hallway, tugging at his zipper as he went.

*** 

He emerged half an hour later in low-slung pajama bottoms, an old t-shirt, and a dressing gown. He’d obviously discarded the fake breasts and scrubbed off the makeup, and he’d washed his hair again with his usual shampoo. He sat down on the couch again, limbs akimbo this time.

John inhaled deeply. “God, I missed that smell. Strawberry didn’t suit you at all. I missed seeing you like this. You made a lovely woman, but you make a _stunning_ man, Sherlock. Now. Where were we?”

“I believe you were a lot closer to the couch,” Sherlock answered in his normal register. God, John had _missed_ that. He heard it when Sherlock spoke to others outside the flat, but not like this, not when it was just the two of them. He _loved_ Sherlock’s rumbling baritone, that smoke-and-honey voice.

“I believe I was about to kiss you rather a lot. If you wanted.”

“John,” he said, his voice half an octave deeper than usual. “I’ve been dreaming of kissing you for _ages_.”

John sat down next to him, cupped his face tenderly, and brushed his lips across Sherlock’s. Sherlock sighed and pressed his mouth more firmly against John’s.

For minutes, they sat there like that, their lips moving purposefully against each other. John took a risk and ran his tongue gently over the curve of Sherlock’s bottom lip, then the top. Sherlock parted his lips unconsciously, and John dipped his tongue between them, not moving much, not overwhelming him. John wasn’t sure how much experience Sherlock had with any of this, but kissing was an art form John took very seriously.

Sherlock made a needy, breathy sound, which John eagerly swallowed, and touched John’s tongue firmly with his. He licked along John’s tongue, taking control of the kiss, sending John’s tongue back to his mouth and chasing it eagerly, _aggressively_.

_Right_ , John thought, losing his wits quickly as Sherlock licked into his mouth. _Definitely not inexperienced then_. That made him wonder how much experience Sherlock had – kissing, definitely, the way he was single-mindedly taking John apart was testament to that – but that didn’t necessarily mean that he had experience with more.

John tore his mouth away with difficulty, stopping Sherlock from following with a firm hand on his chest (it was difficult not to turn that restraint into a caress – God, it was so good to see, to _feel_ , Sherlock’s chest proper, not the false breasts Sherlock had thought John would prefer).

“Wait,” John gasped. “Sherlock, just…”

“Oh, are you going to be tedious now?” Sherlock asked in a low rumble.

“Probably,” John said cheerfully. More seriously, he asked, “Sherlock, have you done this before?”

Sherlock groaned. “And you were doing so _well_ with your deductions today,” he complained. “ _Think_ , John. You _know_ me, you proved that today already rather brilliantly. What conclusions can you draw from the evidence?” He moved to nibble on John’s earlobe while John struggled to put together a coherent sentence. His ears were _really_ sensitive.

“Uh, _fuck_ , Sherlock, you… _fuck it_ , going with yes here.”

“Back it up with evidence,” Sherlock admonished, flicking his tongue in John’s ear.

“Not… not timid. Definitely know what you’re doing, at least with this. _Fuck it_ , Sherlock, just kiss me again.” He threw a leg over Sherlock’s lap and straddled him. 

Sherlock looked up at John and smiled predatorily. “ _Absolutely_ ,” he purred, and leaned forward to kiss John again _thoroughly_.

John moaned into the kiss. He was hard, aching, just from the intense kisses Sherlock was bestowing (and from being the sole focus of Sherlock’s considerable attention). He went to press more firmly against Sherlock, only for Sherlock to shift his hips away.

Many heady, _wonderful_ minutes later, John realized every time he tried to move closer, or his hips twitched, Sherlock moved his lower body away, although he seemed perfectly happy to keep their upper bodies entwined. 

John tried to work out _why_ as Sherlock smeared open-mouth kisses along John’s throat. Was Sherlock not into this? No, that didn’t fit – his pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged, his heart fluttering. Was he less experienced than he had led John to believe? John gave that a bit more thought, but dismissed it when Sherlock ran a hand down John’s side and rubbed his erection through his jeans. Christ, it was hard (ha!) to think with Sherlock’s long, _wicked_ fingers teasing his trapped dick.

John marshalled his thoughts. Was Sherlock not hard? Arousal didn’t necessarily mean an erection, John knew that perfectly well. Did he think John would be disappointed or take it the wrong way? He opened his mouth to reassure Sherlock, then rethought. Sherlock was generally unapologetic about his ‘transport’. Was there a better explanation?

Oh. _Oh_. Did Sherlock think John would be put off by his hard cock, think that John would think it too ‘gay’? (Like that ship hadn’t sailed – quite _happily_ – when John stuck his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth). Or did Sherlock think John was pretending Sherlock was actually a woman, despite what John had said earlier? Did he think John would panic and change his mind when he felt Sherlock’s cock?

John deliberately pushed his hips forward. Sherlock, as before, moved his out of John’s way. “No, don’t,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips. “I want to feel you.”

Sherlock pulled his mouth away slightly. “Are you sure, John? I’m not… It’s not… I have a _penis_ , John.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, trust me,” John answered.

“But… you… you’re not gay.”

“Sherlock, love, I couldn’t tell you all the things I want to do to you – _and_ your dick. I want to know how you feel in my hand. I want to know its exact dimensions, its feel, so well I could pick it out blindfolded in a roomful of naked men. I want to know how you taste, how you feel in my mouth, against my tongue. I want to know how slick with precome you get when you’re turned on. I want to know how it feels to have you come down my throat. I want to know how you feel inside me, how you’d feel against my prostate. I want to know how your dick feels in my hand when I fuck you. Sherlock, there isn’t a goddamn thing I don’t want to at least try with you, and there isn’t a single inch of your body I don’t want to see, to touch, to _taste_.”

Sherlock surged upward, kissing John fiercely, pressing as much of his body against John as possible. John moaned as he felt their erections _finally_ touch each other, even through layers of fabric. God, Sherlock felt _so good_ against him, a long, hard line. 

“I want to see you,” John said. “I want to see you completely naked, Sherlock.”

“You too.”

They separated long enough to shuck clothes. John stared down at Sherlock and inhaled sharply. “God, Sherlock, you’re fucking _gorgeous_. I meant what I said. There isn’t an inch of your body I don’t want to know.”

He kissed his way haphazardly down Sherlock’s chest, then shifted so he was on his knees in front of the couch. He paused with his mouth on Sherlock’s lower belly and asked, “Okay?”

“Yes, _please_ , John, please, yes,” Sherlock babbled.

“Shhhh,” John soothed, then leaned forward and licked a line up Sherlock’s cock. Warm. Clean. _Male_. God yes, he could like this. He did it again, and again, teasing the head, remembering everything he’d ever liked in a blowjob, listening to Sherlock’s sighs and moans. He sucked the head into his mouth and wrapped his hands around the base, the other bracing himself on Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock was trying not to thrust hard into John’s mouth, his hips making aborted little twitches that John found positively adorable. The amount of _love_ he felt for this man was just astounding. He bobbed his head further down Sherlock’s cock – which was long, like the rest of Sherlock, and thick, definitely not like the rest of Sherlock – and moved his hand in counterpoint.

He felt Sherlock’s gaze on him and looked up, their eyes locking. “Oh _God_ ,” Sherlock panted. “John, I… oh _God John your mouth_ , it’s been _so long…_ ”

John wasn’t even slightly disappointed Sherlock was already on the verge of orgasm. He felt ten – a _hundred_ – feet tall, bringing Sherlock to the edge so fast, that Sherlock wanted him so badly he couldn’t slow down, and he sucked harder for a moment, then pulled off with a wet pop. “Do it,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Come down my throat. I want to know what it feels like to have you pulsing in my mouth, in my throat, how you fucking taste, Sherlock, I _need_ to know.” 

Sherlock gave a practically subsonic groan at that, and John went back to sucking, any finesse he had gone as he worked Sherlock towards a relentless orgasm. He felt Sherlock’s thighs start to shake and tremble, tense under his hands, and he cupped Sherlock’s full, tight balls.

Sherlock came with a strangled shout, hips arching off the sofa. John moaned at the feel of Sherlock thickening and throbbing in his mouth, and swallowed in time with the spurts of come. When Sherlock started shaking with sensitivity, John pulled off and pressed a last, loving kiss to the crown.

“Good?” he asked huskily.

“Nnnnnnngh,” Sherlock managed, looking delightfully rumpled, sex-flushed, sweaty, and utterly, utterly _his_.

John couldn’t wait. He wanted to come, fucking badly, wanted any kind of friction on his cock, but he forced himself to wait while Sherlock pulled himself back together, just lazily stroking his cock in a ‘yes, yes we’ll get to you’ kind of way.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and went to bat John’s hand away, then frowned as his hand flopped back on the couch. “My God, you’ve _broken_ me, John.”

John laughed. He was _pretty_ sure his blowjob technique was not that good, that it was more about who was doing it rather than what was being done, but fuck, he’d take the damn compliment.

“I want to see you come, John. I want to know what you look like lost in pleasure. Masturbate for me, John.”

Someone saying it so clinically should _not_ be so fucking _hot_ , but it was Sherlock, and John was pretty sure Sherlock could read a medical text to him right now and John wouldn’t stop wanking. He stroked more firmly, harder, the way he liked, not teasing now, just long, hard strokes exactly how he needed.

“Ejaculate on me,” Sherlock murmured encouragingly. “Mark me as yours, mix your scent with mine.”

Oh God, fuck, yes, definitely. John’s toes curled into the rug as his orgasm rattled through his, come landing on Sherlock’s stomach, his thighs, an errant spurt high up on his chest. John managed to turn his flop onto the couch into a controlled fall, not landing on any sensitive part of his lover.

“We are fucking _idiots_ ,” John declared.

“Is insulting your lover a John Watson sex technique I didn’t know about?” Sherlock asked, wrapping an arm around John and pulling him close.

“We could’ve been doing this for _ages_ if one of us fucking _talked_ to the other.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under him. “Ah, John, I… the experiment, I…”

John knew what he was trying to say. “Consider it forgotten. I’ll certainly never tell anyone. If they ask how we got together, I’ll tell them we finally talked – which we did. Even if that experiment started it.” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “I love you, just as you are. I don’t want you to change _anything_ about yourself that you don’t want to, just to make me stay.”

“Not even the body parts in the fridge?”

“Can we agree that you label and store them properly? Because if so, not even the body parts in the fridge.”

Sherlock fidgeted. “I didn’t say before. John. I love you.” His voice was low, quiet, but unmistakably tender. And firm, confident – John had thought that if Sherlock ever said those words, it would be awkward, strange, for a man who eschewed sentiment. But they fell naturally from Sherlock’s mouth, like he’d said it thousands of times already.

“Oh,” John said in hushed awe. “Oh, _Sherlock_.” He wrapped his arms around his lover and hugged tight. He thought of making a joke about how he would hope that Sherlock did something so utterly _bizarre_ out of love instead of some other reason, but the mood wasn’t right for it. This was Sherlock, handing him his heart, and John took the gift very, very seriously. Certainly he’d done enough damage if Sherlock thought becoming a woman _just_ to attract him was a reasonable option. 

He pressed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s temple and vowed never, ever to mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! Thanks to everyone whose read!


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